


Not a Matter of Debate

by Lunarium



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Loyalty, Rebellion, Space Mall, Vandalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-22 05:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14302122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: Varkon thinks the world of Zarkon and believes he’s the greatest leader to have ever lived. Not everyone agrees with him.





	Not a Matter of Debate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Measured_Words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/gifts).



The offending graffiti greeted Varkon as he neared the front entrance of the intergalactically-famous, critically-acclaimed Space Mall. The great Emperor Zarkon stood in the poster, posing proud and honorable, yet his pride was mocked by some punkass during the night. Just defaced in bright, vile, vivid colors, he was. His eminence, which would have been one of the first things all patrons of the mall would have witnessed and been reminded of, was tarnished with that annoying orange spray paint. 

It was a long tapestry made of some vinyl fabric, not something to be hidden in glass but displayed in all its glory, to be caressed if the emperor’s subordinates wished to grace themselves with their boundless leader. 

And most of all, this poster was an exceedingly rare one. Cost him seventy thousand GAC. He had yelled at the Earthen antiques shopkeeper—he kept forgetting his name; it was something weird like Fred or Josh or Bessie—to get the last existing stocks in existence. The fact that it wasn’t his usual merchandise he carried be damned; if it was Emperor Zarkon, the greatest and longest-lived leader of the Galra and uniter of the universe, then all of the money in Varkon’s bank and loans were well worth it. 

And now some punk had tried to make a mockery of the great emperor. They had given him some sort of beard like a wokimongle’s chin, and long swirly horns like a zorqlic’s antennas. To top it off, an absurdity in the form of a third arm making a rude hand gesture at the patrons was added on. Full-on vandalization. The whole works.

Varkon makes the calls to have the paint removed, and there’s much shouting and threatening until the custodian caves in and promises to get the paint out; he adds as a guarantee, after much more threatening, that no damage will come to the poster (or risk his family getting shipped off to a faraway solar system of Varkon’s choosing, as he had insisted he knew of many generals in Central Command. 

By noon-time, the paint was all off. The poster looked, upon close inspection, not too bad. Still worth the pretty GAC he had paid for it. Didn’t have to dial anyone (or worse, hunt for any contact numbers. He only _wanted_ to pretend to know Morvok’s number, ancients forfend the day he actually needs the good-for-nothing cowardly commander.) 

Things went as usual for the remainder of the day. But the very next morning, a new set of offensive graffitis smeared the poster, and the process was repeated all over. 

“Damn you, you little punk!” Varkon spat after slamming the communicator down. It rattled on the tabletop, threatening to shatter. If he had to put in for a new poster he would have really gone mad. Not to mention this may very well be the last of its kind in existence, and he wasn’t going to send Bessie back to the Puigs to haggle with that merchant again. 

“Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on you _again_ because I’m going to get you and you’ll be so sorry you ever thought to mess with Varkon!” 

He spun around as he cried out the final few words and posed in front of another poster of Emperor Zarkon, the Universe’s greatest leader to have ever lived, that he happened to have displayed in his office. 

At that moment, soft knock came from his door, indicating his order from Vrepit Sal had arrived.

*

The following morning, Varkon awoke extra early. He had to learn how to reset his bedside clock to wake him just a couple hours earlier than usual, as he wasn’t used to getting up at any other time other than his usual. He followed through his morning routine quickly, his mission on hand. No lazing around for today.

His methods rewarded him. Just as he had expected, the damn punk was outside in the early breaks of the cosmic dawn, committing their next round of crimes. 

With an angry growl, Varkon kicked on his motorbike and it sped up as fast as it could. It spluttered and farted its way towards the culprit. The poster was very expensive, so much that Varkon didn’t have any left over to get himself a new motorbike. This was fine; anything to display his loyalty to their greatest leader was fine. 

“HALT!” he shouted on top of his lungs. His voice could pin the brat down before the motorbike and him got to the kid. “Our cameras have been keeping an eye on you, kid!” 

The kid gave a loud “HA!” as Varkon rolled to a stop. The blood boiled in his head as he pulled out his baton. “As if! You never saw me, and I know it! _I_ disabled the camera!” 

Varkon growled. Arrogant little prick. He marched a few steps and was momentarily disarmed when their eyes met. 

“What? A Galra?” He had anticipated some punk from one of the patrons who was doing the rebelling, ungrateful for all the good the Galra were giving them in addition to all the peace and stability they sowed into their planets, but a Galra adolescent brat?

The young Galra narrowed her eyes. “That’s right, fartty.” 

Quickly recovering, he waved his arm over the poster. 

“You find this funny, kid?” 

“Do you really think Emperor Zarkon is doing everything in our best interest, Velisa?” 

Varkon froze for a moment, blinking before shaking his head. “Wh-what?” 

The kid stepped into the thin ray of light from the faraway star. Her eyes burned with fury. 

“You heard me,” she said gruffly. “You really think he has our best intentions? And I know your name’s not _Varkon_. What sort of Galra but a hotly blinded fool would change the name given to him by his parents to match that of the torrid leader he worships the dirt dripping from his boots?” 

The blood was beyond boiling by this point. He was seeing red, and ready to smash his baton against the kid’s head. 

“What sort of monster are you prostrating to? What sort of leader leaves this universe in shambles?” 

“Kid, this is not a matter of debate! You’ve knowingly defaced a—” 

“I don’t care! I’ll deface Zarkon himself if he were standing in front of me!” 

Varkon gasped. “I’m warning you, kid—that’s treason!—once they lock you up—”

“If you’re so obsessed with your so-called great leader, then take this! Go! Be like Zarkon!” the kid cried out and pointed a can of spray paint at Varkon. He didn’t have time to react before he and the motorbike got a good spray of it.

*

As Varkon—or Velisa, if the fool ever learned to think for himself and went back to his real name—tended to getting himself and his ancient bike clean, Virzka scuttled off with a huff.

She hid from the mall patrons who were just beginning to come in. Cops would be called in. The-Galra-Formerly-Known-As-Velisa was a mall cop himself, but he was no match for her. But she’d be no match to actual Galra guards sweeping in. 

Still, she needed a moment to catch her breath and steady her fists. 

If it weren’t for Zarkon, she would still have a home to go to. Her parents would be there and not in jail for missing out on paying for her brother’s school tuition, something which they had insisted they had paid, and had the records to prove it. 

The fact that the payment had gotten lost was something they and no one could explain. But getting a lawyer was near impossible. Trying to fight with a ten-thousand year-old empire was laughable. Where was justice for them then? Where was this great empire that Zarkon’s croonies tooted at every opportunity? 

And they’re Galra! 

Best hang out in jail. At least she and her brother could visit their beloved and kind parents. At least her parents were safe from any more accusations of wrongdoing from the Empire. And her brother lost his chance of being drafted into the military. Maybe it was all for the best. 

Virzka heaved a heavy sigh. Her parents would be displeased to know she had been spending her days vandalizing the mall’s exterior by defacing as many pictures of the damn emperor as she could find, but what more could she do? She was angry, and it wasn’t like she could join the military if she wanted. Or find employment once they knew of her family’s history. There were some less appealing options but she didn’t even want to think about those. 

She tucked her chin in her hands and watched solemnly as a group of five weirdly-dressed and heavily-masked individuals made their way to the mall. 

There had been some vague rumors about a rebellion. Something about an old legend named Voltron standing up and facing against the empire. They were apparently going to free the universe from Zarkon’s reign. 

She sighed again. As if. Would they free her parents? Give her some semblance of a normal life back? Either way, this thought was more pleasant than the daily nightmare she’d been living through for the past couple years. 

She hoped this team Voltron, whoever they were, would get the job done soon.


End file.
